


The Fall of Legolas Thranduilion

by Ollieollieupandfree



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Character Death, Helm's Deep, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 15:46:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13170087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ollieollieupandfree/pseuds/Ollieollieupandfree
Summary: Legolas' death at Helm's Deep.





	The Fall of Legolas Thranduilion

There once lived a prince of the elves. He had skin as smooth and white as milk, and hair the color of hazel nuts. He was beautiful and great loved by all his people, but none loved him more than his father. Thranduil Oropherion had lost all save his son in the Battle of Dagorlad. His wife was slain there, as was his father. When he returned from the battle, he had put all he had into the raising of his son, and showered the young prince with all the affection in the world.

 

The young prince looked much like his mother, he had not inherited his father’s silver hair, and Thranduil loved his son all the more for it. The prince’s hair was long and soft, and it was greatly admired by all, for it was kept pristinely perfect. Thranduil had spent hours when the prince was little more than a child washing that hair, and indeed the prince had even allowed his father to play with his hair when he was grown.

 

The prince was a warrior, and this was something that Thranduil recognized as true and was immensely proud of. But he had always kept his son close to himself, refusing to let the boy into any major battles. He was confined to the throne room, guarding the king and looking more impressive than practical. The prince did not mind such things, as he knew his father did it for his protection. The stories of men told of a fair maiden locked in a tower, oft singing and waiting for the rescue of a kind and handsome prince. The prince laughed at these stories, for he waited for none for rescue. Save, perhaps, for his father to rescue him when he got into trouble with the Cook. It seemed that event the king was afraid of the fearsome chef.

 

It was these things that Prince Legolas Thranduilion thought of as he lay on the ground. His tunic was torn and dirtied, his bow lay next to him, broken. His hair, usually pristine, was tangled and matted with blood. One hand clutched at the arrow in his stomach, and the other lay limp against the ground. His silver eyes looked to the sky, thinking of all that he would not get to see. He had promised Gimli he would see the glittering caves with him, and treat the dwarf to proper Elven hospitality.

 

Scarlet blood trickled down the prince’s fair skin, as the battle raged on around him. He went unnoticed, lying away from the main battle. Both comrades and enemies passed him by, assuming him dead already and that they would clear his body away when the battle was over. Under the blood and matted hair, nobody noticed the prince’s glow. Nobody saw the silver tears leaving his eyes.

 

The prince thought of his eldest friend, and how he would never see Aragorn crowned. Or attend his wedding to the Lady Arwen. Or meet his child. He thought of Aragorn’s scream when they thought the little hobbits Merry and Pippin dead. He hoped  that Aragorn would not scream for him. Instead, he hoped he would sing. Legolas hoped they would all sing. Not of his deeds in battle or his valor, as they had for Boromir.

 

He hoped they would sing of his skills and his kindness. Not of his skills in fighting, for such things did not matter much to the Eldar. He hoped they would sing of his voice, of the way his fingers so deftly wove flowers into crowns befit for a king.  He hoped they would sing of how he could not cook but how he was oddly good at washing clothes for a prince.

 

A laugh bubbled up out of his throat alongside blood as he thought of this last fact. When he was a child, if he got especially dirty he would be punished by having to wash the laundry himself instead of some poor servant. He didn’t mind his punishment, as it gave him excuse to play in the water with the bubbles. No one in Mirkwood was better than he at laundry, and it was a fact that he was proud of.

 

As Legolas lay there, he thought of Gimli. He hoped Gimli would survive and get to see the glittering caves as he so hoped he would. The battle waned around him and Legolas felt hope rise in him. Maybe they would get to him soon enough and he would be saved.

 

He laughed as he lost feeling in his legs. It was an orc’s arrow. Poisoned and barbed. There was no chance of Legolas surviving this. There was a sense of wicked irony to it all. The best archer in Middle-Earth, downed by the arrow of a lesser archer. The humor was not wasted on the elf. It was a death that could have happened to any other soldier. Legolas was proud of that. He did not want to go out in a way that was special and specific to him only. Humans always wanted to be remembered when they died. Legolas wanted to be invisible. He did not want his death to overshadow the victory of Helm’s Deep.

 

He listened as the day broke and any remaining enemies retreated. He heard as Aragorn and Gimli called for him, searching. He coughed, blood dripping from his lips onto the hair surrounding his head. He did not reply as the calls for him grew more desperate.

 

They were coming closer, but it didn’t matter. It seemed that one of the retreating orcs had seen him and guessed of his importance, knowing of the Elven companion of Aragorn. The orc had dragged Legolas into a nearby bush, and although the Elf could see his approaching friends they could not see him.

 

Legolas had always thought he’d accept death when it came for him, but now as the endless darkness approached he sobbed. Little hiccups, barely audible. He didn’t want to die alone. This wasn’t how he wanted to go. No, no, no, no, no. Let him go home. He wanted to go home. He wanted to see his father. He wanted to apologize to Gimli for everything mean he had said to him, in jest or not. He wanted to be standing back in his father’s throne room, more impressive than functional. He wanted to walk among the trees. He wanted to sing again, to see his friends. He wanted to yell at Gandalf and Aragorn and Gimli and the hobbits for their pipeweed.

 

He wanted to see Arwen. He wanted to laugh when she threw him her bouquet, because she always was determined that he be married before he sailed. He wanted to hold Arwen and Aragorn’s child when Aragorn was too busy and Arwen was too tired. He wanted to go home. His father. What would his father think? He had lost everyone in that damned battle. Now he’d lost his son. He was alone. Legolas sobbed, too quiet for anyone to hear. He didn’t want his father to be alone. He didn’t want to be alone. His hand fell from the arrow in his stomach, and he couldn’t bring himself to lift it. He heard sobs in Aragorn and Gimli’s voice as they called for him. He wanted to scream. Scream for them to find them before he could never see them again. He wanted to sob and scream and beg for them not to let him die. He wanted to laugh and tease Aragorn for being dirty. He wanted to laugh and tell Gimli that he was the bravest dwarf Legolas had ever met. He wanted to hold his friend’s hands. He wanted to embrace his father and never leave him alone again.

 

He didn’t want to die alone.


End file.
